The Women and the Warlords

by Hugh Cook

  'A slave owns nothing in its own right,' said York. 'Not even a name. Tonight, I'll call you Skak.’

  He took off the last piece of his clothing, and stood before her, naked. She could not keep herself from looking. His cock was flaccid, a dead weight hanging limply. That was the final insult. He had rejected her love: now he was not even lusting after her body. Yet he was going to rape her all the same.

  Yen Olass still did not look at the knife, but she thought about it all the same.

  'What's your name?' said York, working his flesh.

  Yen Olass held silence.

  'Your name!’

  His shout hit her like a battering ram. She flinched, as if she had been struck. Then, reluctantly, she named herself: 'Skak.’

  And, speaking the word, naming herself with the crude Yarglat term for the female part, she finally accepted her destiny, which, she saw now, was the true and inevitable destiny of a woman -- to humble herself before the power of a man, and to be broken by a man. York stood before her, naked, his male strength now rising erect. Now, gazing on his raw masculine might, she said:

  'Skak. That's what I am.’

  Defeated, she closed her eyes. Though she was lying down, she felt dizzy with fatigue. The moment she closed her eyes, she seemed to be falling. She felt as if the world was collapsing, as if her body was disintegrating.

  'Open your eyes,' said York.

  He wanted her to watch. To see.

  With a dull, helpless obedience, Yen Olass complied. Then, unbidden, she began to slide out of her clothes. York laid himself down beside her. His worm sagged, as if starting to lose interest, so he played with himself, keeping his flesh alert while she stripped, Finally, all that remained to dispose of was one small item.

  Yen Olass removed the blood-rag guarding her quim,

  and held the ghastly item between thumb and finger, momentarily uncertain as to what to do with it.

  'That's one thing I won't have to worry about tomorrow night,' said York.

  'Tomorrow?’

  'When I take Monogail.’

  Yen Olass was no longer sleepy. Her body burnt as if her veins had been filled with scalding water. Suddenly alert, as tense as a beast of prey about to strike, she stared at the man lying beside her and said:

  T don't think you'll have her. First, she's too young. Second, she's under protection.’

  'Oh, don't worry your head about that,' said York cheerfully. 'I've had them that young before. They rip, of course, but there's no helping that. As for her protection, so called . . .’

  He laughed.

  Then yawned, closing his eyes for a moment.

  Yen Olass stuffed the blood-rag into his mouth.

  As he gagged, she snatched the knife and stabbed him. He tried to sit up. She punched him in the throat. His eyes rolled up and he collapsed backwards. Yen Olass wrenched the knife out. Holding it with both hands, she plunged it into his heart. Then lugged it out and struck again. And again. And again.

  'For Monogail!' said Yen Olass, slamming home the knife one more time.

  Then she grunted, strengthened her grip on the knife, and twisted, turning the blade in the body.

  'For my mother!’

  She was hot, burning, sweating. With one hand she pushed down on the dead man's body, and with the other she hauled out the knife. Her frenzy was passing, and she began to realize exactly what she had done. She felt no horror at this murder. Instead, it gave her a profound sense of satisfaction. She licked the blood from the blade. Slowly. Tenderly.

  'Dara ko cha,' said Yen Olass, using a phrase from her homeland which meant 'The apple bites back'.

  She had bitten back with a vengeance.

  But was York really dead? He looked dead enough. She had seen battlefield corpses which looked prettier. Nevertheless, it was best to make certain.

  Carefully, Yen Olass aimed the knife at a well-chosen spot and jabbed it in. There was no response. She smiled, as happy as a cat with cream.

  'Darling,' she said, and kissed the dead man.

  But she did not kiss him on the lips, which were stained with her blood and his. Instead, she kissed him on the throat. Then, remembering how the Lord Emperor Khmar had once demolished a man in her presence, she gave York a love-bite. Then she went to work.

  When she was entirely finished, Yen Olass looked as if she had just climbed out of a bath of blood. Searching the suite, leaving bloody footprints on the floor, she found plenty of spare linen. She washed her body in wine, there being no water available; she finished up clean but reeking of alcohol. Never mind. She dressed herself in wool and leathers which had belonged to York. She wore no armour, because she would be moving through the castle by stealth.

  Yen Olass took the knife which had already served her so well. There was going to be a lot more killing in the castle tonight. She was going to free Hearst, Watashi and the others, even if she had to kill a dozen guards and sentries to do so. Once she had liberated her manforce, they would be tasked with the job of liberating Monogail and Yerzerdayla. Then they would kill out the castle, taking their victims while they slept. By dawn, the floors would be knee-deep in blood, and Yen Olass and her companions would be far away on stolen horses or a stolen ship. If they had to ride, Monogail would sit on her horse. Once she had recovered her child, nothing would separate them, not ever again.

  Yen Olass opened the heavy wooden door which guarded York's suite, and slipped out into the hallway, closing the door behind her. By the light of a guttering torch, she saw a sentry sitting in the hallway, his head nodding down to his chest.

  Yen Olass held her breath.

  Was he asleep?

  She hoped so.

  She crept forward, moving stealthily, knife in hand so she would be ready to strike if the sentry woke and grappled with her.

  'No need to mouse along like that,' said a deep, heavy voice. 'He's dead. I've killed him already.’

  Yen Olass started.

  A shadow advanced out of the shadows. To her horror, she saw it was Nan Nulador. This time, he was armed with a double-bladed battle-axe.

  T was going to give the happy couple a little more time to finish their business and get to sleep,' said Nan Nulador. 'You've saved me a long wait.’

  'Nan Nulador,' said Yen Olass, dropping her voice down, using a special tone. 'Sleep.’

  Nan Nulador continued to advance. Her voice no longer had any effect on him at all. Suddenly, he leapt forward on the attack, the axe sweeping toward her.

  Yen Olass screamed at him.

  Her scream killed him.

  He fell face first, chopped down dead.

  Yen Olass started at his dead body in amazement -- then saw the shaft of the arrow sticking out of his back.

  'Drop the knife,' said the archer, advancing out of the shadows.

  By the light of the guttering torch, Yen Olass saw that the archer was a Yarglat. She had never seen him before. He had already nocked another arrow.

  'Drop the knife!’

  Yen Olass threw it with all her force. It winged wide, and went clattering into the darkness.

  'You need practice,' said the Yarglat dryly, drawing the bow. 'But I don't. Any more tricks and I'll kill you without blinking. Understand?’

  Yen Olass nodded.

  'Good,' said the Yarglat. 'Now come with me.’

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  The castle was asleep, and Morgan Hearst was ready to move. His cell was pitch black, as the torch they had left with him had long since expired. But by now he knew this prison intimately. He had tested the door for weaknesses, finding none. Climbing up onto the heavy lintel above the door, he had probed the stonework. Again he had been disappointed. But the floor and the walls had yielded up interesting secrets.

  Now, moving in the dark, he remove the loose flagstone and took out the items he had earlier discovered beneath it. There was a length of rope, a knife and half a horseshoe, which had been ground down at one end to make a kind of chisel. Hearst explored th
e wall, once more finding the loose stone. Using the horseshoe chisel, he levered it out, exposing a steel tunnel descending from unknown heights. It was wet, but it was not a sewer; it smelt dank, but was not unclean.

  Hearst had feared to leave earlier in the night, thinking that the turnkey might come and check on him, and raise the alarm. But there had been no checks, so he doubted that anyone would come for him before dawn. Now he would escape. And if escape proved impossible, then he would kill himself to deny his enemies the pleasure of sacrificing him.

  Silently, Hearst eased himself into the tunnel. It was a tight squeeze to get through the hole made by removing a block of stone, but once in the tunnel he had room enough to go on all fours or to waddle. He went downward, hoping the tunnel would exit somewhere near the base of the castle. Once he was clear of the castle, there would be no holding him.

  As he worked his way down the tunnel, it started to get steeper. He went cautiously through the dark, wary in case he encountered a drop-hole. He was reminded of the time when he had retreated through darkened tunnels exiting from a dragon's lair on the mountain of Maf; these memories of times past were unwelcome, and he suppressed them.

  As the tunnel got steeper, it became drier. And warm. Then hot. Then Hearst saw a flicker of fire up ahead. He paused, unable to keep himself from recalling past encounters with dragons. Was it possible that his Collosnon enemies were holding such a monster in their dungeons? It was unlikely, but not impossible.

  Hearst doubted that he could tackle a dragon with a bit of rope, a knife and an improvised chisel. Yet he crept forward. The flames grew brighter. He could see his own hands now; he could see the stone blocks the tunnel was made from. He saw a drop of his own sweat fall to make a small damp patch on the hot dry stone. It faded rapidly.

  A little further, and Hearst found himself on the edge of a chasm, looking down into a pit of seething fire. There was no dragon to contend with: but this inferno was impassable. The chasm was a remnant of the fire dyke which had once moated the ancient stronghold of wizards, Castle Vaunting.

  Hearst studied his surroundings carefully. He leaned out and peered to right and to left. There was no escape from this end of the tunnel. Still, if escape ultimately proved impossible, he had an easy way out ...

  So he thought for a moment. Then his old fear of heights claimed him, and he withdrew from the edge of the chasm, shuddering. If in the end he was forced to suicide to escape being sacrificed, then he would not jump into that pit. Instead, he would slash his carotids, allowing him to bleed to death swiftly without excessive pain.

  But it was not yet time for that.

  Hearst turned round and followed the tunnel upward. Soon it grew too dark for him to see, but his questing, testing fingertips found the hole marking the place where he had removed a block of stone from his cell wall. He paused, resting. Not for the first time, he wondered about the prisoner who had actually chipped away the mortar to loosen that stone, and who had secreted rope, knife and chisel under a loose flagstone. Had that prisoner been taken away and executed just before escaping? Or had the prisoner perhaps fallen ill, escape again being prevented by death?

  What Hearst was trying to avoid was the thought that maybe there was no escape via this tunnel.

  After a short rest, he continued on up the tunnel. Again it grew steeper. Finally it became vertical. He worked his way upward, bracing his back against one wall of the shaft and his knees against the opposite wall, using hand, hook, forearms and elbows in his struggle.

  He was halted at length by a metal grating. He pushed it with his head. It refused to shift. Bracing himself with back and knees, jamming himself in the shaft so he could not slip and fall, he heaved upwards, using head, hand and forearm. Sweating and straining, he managed to lift the metal grate. He pushed it aside. It made a hideous sound as it scraped over stone.

  Swiftly, Hearst hauled himself up and sat on the edge of the shaft. He snapped his fingers and listened for echoes. Something was deadening the sound. He was in a room of indeterminate size, possibly a room clad with soft furnishings.

  Moving round in the dark, Hearst found bundles of linen. Then a clothes horse. Behind that, a fireplace. He raked through the ashes with his knife, uncovering a few-dying embers. He found a woodbox to one side of the fireplace, trimmed shavings from a log to use as kindling, and before long had a fire going.

  By the firelight, he saw that he was in a laundry. He had guessed as much already. Some poor unfortunates must have the job of carting water up from the river; once dirty, it was tipped away down the shaft, riding the tunnel down to the fire chasm. In Garabatoon, faced with the threat of the Swarms, a lot of effort had gone into putting as many people and services as possible behind the protection of stone walls.

  Hearst looked for the door leading out of the laundry. To his surprise, it was barred from the outside. He could not shift it. It was a massive, hulking door made out of baulks of timber. Even with an axe, he would have been some time smashing a way through it; without an axe, any such effort would be futile. The weakest point of a door is often its hinges, but in this case the hinges were on the far side.

  The windows were narrow slits which would not even admit his head. Looking out, he saw a dark night sky and darker countryside. He hunted all through the laundry, but found only one way of escape -- up the chimney. Heat fanned his face as he leaned over the fire. He peered up the dubious black shaft then withdrew, and sat down to think.

  He was very comfortable there by the fire. The blue flames talked to the red and the gold, murmuring quietly. Occasional sparks ascended. Some were wafted on upwards, while others clung to the blackened walls of the chimney, glowed momentarily then died, adding their own weight to the thick coating of soot.

  Hearst was tired; he was more than ready for sleep. Could he hide in the laundry and escape when the workers came? No. He would either be caught sleeping, or else he would die fighting his way out of castle. To survive, he had to escape from Castle Celadric tonight, and get away under cover of darkness. He got to his feet.

  Hearst sorted out three hooded cloaks and donned all three. Once he escaped, he would discard them, since travelling the countryside covered in soot would draw unnecessary attention to him -- to put it mildly. He drew dirty water from a tub which had not yet been emptied down the disposal chute. The fire hissed and spluttered when he threw on the water. The flames died, but he used more water to kill the fire entirely, not wanting any smoke in the chimney while he was climbing it.

  Belatedly, he realized it might be a good idea to protect his hand -- best to take good care of it, as he only had the one. Working in the dark, he tore cloth into strips and bandaged it. Then he started up the chimney, which was warm, though he had not had the fire burning for long; with three cloaks over his other clothing, he was soon uncomfortably hot.

  He climbed past a junction where another chimney joined the one he was ascending. He forced his way on upward, and then, to his dismay, found that the chimney narrowed to a chokepoint too small for him to get through. Looking up, he saw a span of stars. His hand reached up, counted one, two, three bricks, then found an open space which he supposed was the roof. He made a tentative effort to chip away at the mortar holding the bricks, then abandoned it. Speed was essential. He might be half the night removing the bricks -- and even then, having gained the roof, he might find no easy way to exit from it.

  He decided to climb back to where the chimney branched. If he could not find an escape route, he could always return to attack the bricks barring him from the roof. He descended carefully, reached the junction, and followed the unexplored shaft.

  He found it strangely clean -- there seemed to be no soot in it at all. As it went down, it began to widen. Soon it was almost too wide for him to brace his back against one side and his knees against the other. Hearst found himself getting nervous, fearing a fall. If it got much wider, he would have to give up and climb back again.

  Then he found a wooden ladder
pegged into the side of the shaft. He accepted its assistance gratefully, and climbed down it. All around-him, the shaft opened out. He wondered what on earth could be below. He paused, linking his right arm through the ladder, and scraped the soot out of his nose. Now he could smell something curiously foul -- a compound stench of wet and rot, of bad meat and maggots, of stinking potatoes, of sewage. He peered downwards into the darkness, but found himself unable to see anything.

  He had rested long enough. He climbed on down.

  Suddenly, without a moment's notice, the ladder tore free from the wall. Hearst fell. Falling, he shrieked. His scream of terror echoed from the walls. Then he smashed home into--

  He was buried in it.

  He forced his head out, spat, breathed, gagged, then forced himself to breathe again. He had fallen into a pit filled with everything he had been smelling earlier. He spat repeatedly, fighting nausea. He dared not open his eyes. His clothes, his face, his hair -- everything was covered in evil-smelling slime. He was neck-deep in the stuff.